


Clinging to Power

by thewaterfalcon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Contracts, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 13:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12458427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaterfalcon/pseuds/thewaterfalcon
Summary: When Draco, Pansy, Theo, Daphne and Blaise are rounded up and face a spell in Azkaban without a fair trial, five Gryffindors risk everything to put right what is glaringly wrong...only to find out that the corruption within the Ministry goes a lot deeper than any of them could have realised.





	Clinging to Power

**Author's Note:**

> With alpha-love to JEPierre.

[For those of you who stand up to injustice, no matter how small, this is for you.]

  
  


* * *

_ It’s easier to run with a lie, than hide from the truth _

* * *

****  
  


Pansy

She walked through the dark corridor with every piece of her usual poise; her face an absolute mask of emptiness, as though she were walking into her wardrobe, or to dinner - not that she’d been able to do either of those of late. Certainly, she didn’t -  _ wouldn’t, _ walk as though she were about to face a full Wizengamot trial for war crimes against the Chosen One. 

Tonight, she would be headed for Azkaban prison, of that Pansy held no doubt. Apparently, openly declaring in front of a hall full of people that they ought to hand Harry Potter over to Voldemort was somewhat frowned upon, and of the archaic charges she faced, the word  _ treason  _ was actually stated, as though Pansy had personally betrayed the entire Ministry. 

Which she hadn’t, no matter how much Potter was now painted as  _ even more  _ of a poster boy for them, if that was even possible.    
  
Harry Potter was no longer their hope, as sparse as it had been, even if none of them were willing to admit that, he was now their saviour. Pansy, however, was so far flung from their saviour she might as well transfigure herself into a different species and be done with it. As a witch, she was hated and probably always would be. As a criminal, she was an example.

As they approached the door she knew led to the ancient, circular courtroom, Pansy watched the guards that had escorted her from the Ministry holding cell she’d been kept in for the past three weeks shift uncomfortably in her peripheral vision. She didn’t allow herself to look at them; that was her third rule. 

She’d been seized from Theo’s home, where they’d hid whilst making the plans to go abroad after the WANTED posters and arrest warrants for each them had gone public. She was found, along with Theo and Daphne two weeks after the battle, and apparated to the ministry, each magically chained to a DMLE wizard, before being escorted to a hallway full of identical, grey doors. Each door featured a small, rectangular window and looked, Pansy had thought with a shudder of terror she barely managed to suppress, like they were now standing in the type of corridor Pansy never in a million years imagined she would see. 

The last thing she was aware of before she was all but roughly thrown into her cell was the sight of Daphne shaking so violently she was hardly able to stand, and the sound of a screaming Theo as he attempted, by the sounds of it, entirely unsuccessfully to attack his appointed DMLE wizard.

The cell block had been located, Pansy had assumed, in part of the Ministry itself. A reverted silencing charm had been placed on the tiny room, or perhaps the walls were simply thick enough that they blocked out all noise not contained within them, and the majority of the noises that Pansy heard over the course of the three weeks she had been held there were the sounds of her own screams. Even the abysmal toilet in the corner magically self-cleaned after each use, and the plate she had found lying atop a small, bare table silently filled itself with the blandest food Pansy had ever eaten three times a day.

The first four days had been the hardest. She’d screamed until her voice was hoarse and her throat felt cut to ribbons. Then she’d screamed some more. In fact, she only stopped screaming in order to vomit, which she’d done numerous times until her stomach was as empty as the cell she was being kept prisoner in. Then she’d vomited some more, bent double in agony as she brought up nothing but acidic bile. 

After one week, she’d vowed to kill every member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and spent her time fantasising about the different assassination techniques, each more twisted and violent than the next. 

After two weeks, she saw another person for the first time since her incarceration. He came, burly and bald with eyes too far apart, protruding from the side of his head and a wide, flat nose, giving him the distinct look of a grotesque, overgrown hippopotamus. Pansy’s own eyes widened in surprise at the sight as the stranger skirted his way around the door. 

She hadn’t moved, as much as she’d have liked to attempt to attack him, the small rational part of her mind that remained told her to stay put, its focus flitting between the man’s raised wand and the knowledge that his large frame was enough to overpower her weak, wandless self, effortlessly.

His eyes clamped on hers for a split second before he twisted his mouth into a sinister smile which showed yellowing teeth, and held his wand higher. 

“Pertificus Totalus.”

Pansy’s limbs had snapped to a terrifying halt the second the spell hit her, and she watched, helpless and alone and paralysed, as the man - no, she had dissected through the erratic screaming of her thoughts, the  _ monster _ , approached her... 

Her breathing had been ragged and her mind too full with disgust, anger and sadness as he stood in silence, dressing in the dirty brown robe he’d entered the cell wearing, but she made no other movement even when he countered the paralysis. 

He had appeared again, once, as did one other, and as Pansy sat, frozen, she deliberated all she had left, which, admittedly, was very, very little at this point. She held no loyalty to the DMLE, and neither did they, to her, but she knew that upstanding, law-abiding - even when the laws they were supposed to be abiding were backwards and wholly unfair, members of the Ministry wouldn’t have allowed this to happen. Even in the confusing void of both rage and vulnerability that ravaged her mind leaving little place for much else, she knew that these people held a duty of care, even to prisoners. 

And they, whoever they were, had broken that. She vowed only one, minute truth that would never be a victory, but might just save her broken, tattered soul from losing everything: she would never trust again. That was rule number one and that, she took the tiniest shred of comfort from, was her choice; the last and only thing they couldn’t take from her.  

One day before she’d been taken to her trial, her door had opened and Pansy, resigning herself, to another senseless rape had stiffened her body, ready for the body-bind curse, only to be met by two wizards who were most definitely Ministry workers. 

“Your trial is scheduled for tomorrow, at ten a.m,” one said, his voice monotone.

“Trial,” Pansy repeated, barely recognising her own voice, not entirely sure why the news came as any surprise. 

He answered with a curt, “Shut up!” as his colleague smirked, before he exchanged a look of what might have been amusement with the other as they exited the cell.

“At least that one isn’t screaming the place down like a banshee,” Pansy heard the one who hadn’t spoken to her say with a snigger.

His companion barked a laugh. “You’re telling me, stupid cow next door needs a permanent silencing stick shoved up her arse.”

And there it was, Pansy swallowed. She had next to nothing left; they’d taken her freedom and her voice and they’d either invaded, or simply turned a blind eye to the invasion of, her body, but some minuscule fragment of something which once upon a time may have resembled pride lingered. Rule number two: they’d never see her cry. 

Pansy swallowed and lifted her head upwards, trying to both forget and remember the last few weeks of her life as she examined the door to the courtroom, before, thankful in some ways, but not in others, the door flung open, apparently unaided, and a cool, unfamiliar voice rang out through the quiet. 

“The Wizengamot calls defendant Pansy Lilith Parkinson forth.”

* * *

****  
  


Harry

“Mr Potter, it is simply a matter of ethics, we cannot allow these-” but Kingsley Shacklebolt stopped, mid-sentence, to stare incredulously at one Hermione Granger, who, at his mention of the word  _ ethics _ had loudly scoffed, directly in the Minister for Magic’s face. “Do you find what I’m saying funny, Miss Granger?” Kingsley said Hermione’s name slowly, but Harry had the distinct impression the older wizard trying his hardest to keep his voice level. 

“Funny? No,” Hermione began. She pulled her shoulders back and elongated her neck upwards slightly, with her head literally held high, she continued. “I find your use of the term  _ ethics _ ,” she emphasised the word and Harry saw her eyes begin to narrow slightly at her words, _ “ _ to be wholly inaccurate, and rather worrying.”

Kingsley’s brow was knitted. “ _ Worrying _ , Miss Granger, how so?”

“Because the round up and incarceration of those you mentioned-”

“The  _ wanted war criminals,  _ you mean?”

Harry distinctly saw Hermione’s nostrils flare and, even though the two friends were very much on the same side in this disagreement, he found himself moving a fraction of a step away from Hermione’s side. An angry Hermione was a dangerous one, something he had found out on numerous occasions. 

“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” Hermione recited, and Harry saw her eyes bore into Kingsley’s, unwaveringly. 

The Minister for Magic, however, seemed to blanch somewhat are Hermione’s words, which Harry had to admit had confused him also. 

“Excuse me, Miss Granger, but this is hardly the time for riddles.”

“What it  _ means, _ ” Hermione began, “is that terming Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, and the others, as  _ war criminals,  _ does not change the fact that they are  _ not  _ war criminals. You could lie, entirely, and call them drug-peddling terrorists if you so pleased, Minister, but the simple matter is that they were young adults, same as Harry, Ron and I, doing the best they could to survive during a war.”

Kingsley’s frown lines deepened. “And that is exactly the point, is it not? They weren’t on our side during this war.”

For the first time since they had entered Minister Shacklebolt’s office, Ron, situated on Harry’s other side, spoke up. 

“Their parents weren’t on our side,” Ron began, “but that doesn’t mean they felt the same.”   
  


“Draco Malfoy bears the Dark Mark.”

Harry breathed a harsh sigh through his nose as he stared the Minister down. “Draco Malfoy did what he did because he had no other choice, his father was a Death Eater - what was he supposed to do?”

“Well, Mr Potter, I must say your... _ interest  _ in Draco Malfoy’s wellbeing is, enlightening, but you three having a change of heart about-”

“It’s nothing to do with a  _ change of heart,”  _ Ron interjected, “believe me, Minister, you won’t find anyone who thinks that Draco Malfoy is more of a prick than I do, but that doesn’t mean I think he should go to Azkaban without trial - you’ve heard all Harry’s evidence.”

“He was tasked the job of killing Albus Dumbledore, he wouldn’t have-”

“Because Voldemort knew he would fail! We’ve  _ told  _ you this!” Harry all but shouted at the Minister. 

“Mr Potter, we simply cannot allow those affiliated with the dark side, as all of these,” he gestured vaguely, “old classmates of the three of you are-”

“Minister,” Hermione began, and Harry knew that the levelness to her voice was taking her a great deal of effort.

“You know, it is becoming very tiresome being constantly interrupted.”

“I understand that,” Hermione said, steadily, “however,  _ all  _ we are asking for is that they get a fair trial.”

Kingsley placed his elbows atop his large, mahogany desk and brought his hands close, lacing his fingers together he regarded Hermione, Harry and Ron in turn. 

“They will face the Wizengamot,” he said curtly.

“Thank you, Minister,” Hermione replied, all in one breath. “We appreciate it.”

Kingsley nodded curtly, clearly irritated. “Well, if you three don’t mind, it appears I need to call a meeting with the Wizengamot coordinator.”

All three nodded and hurriedly left the Minister’s office without a word, stopping only when they were at the end of a long corridor, well out of earshot. 

“If you had told me a year ago I’d be fighting Malfoy’s corner I’d have punched you in the nose,” Ron muttered.

Hermione, however, didn’t appear to be listening and was frowning. 

“You okay?” Harry asked her.

“I’m not sure,” Hermione replied, “something doesn’t feel right. They have trials, yes, but I’m not sure I believe they’ll be fair.” She took a breath as she touched one shaky finger on the button to call the elevator to them. 

“The Wizengamot didn’t strike me as very fair when I was there, until Dumbledore showed up, at least,” Harry replied. 

“Exactly, they’re archaic,” Hermione frowned as the door in front opened and they filtered inside, thankfully it was empty. 

“What can we do?” Ron asked, “if the Wizengamot find them guilty, that’ll be it.”

Hermione bit her lip. “There is...something, I’m sure I’ve read about it, but I’m not entirely sure on the ins and outs. I need to go to-”

“The library,” Harry and Ron said in unison.

* * *

Blaise

He’d got further than the others, having so very nearly evaded them at an apparition point in Western France, somewhere close to the border with Switzerland. It was entirely infuriating, had he only managed to make it to Italy and one of his family’s properties, the ancient Zabini family magic would have provided him enough protection to evade the British DMLE. 

As it happened, however, there was little he could do when surrounded by four well trained law enforcement wizards. It was a curse to the back that took him down, something that only pissed him off more. 

“You could at least have looked me in the eye,” he spat through clenched teeth, shuffling his shoulders this way and that, not to escape, he knew his chance of that was slim to none, but perhaps it would cause annoyance for the two wizards currently flanking him, none of the DMLE wizards had so much as looked in the direction of Blaise’s face, something that enraged him further, “when arresting me for a crime I didn’t commit.”

“ _ Didn’t  _ commit? Is that so?” The one gripping his left bicep queried with the sort of amused half-smirk that only made Blaise want to hex his bollocks off. 

God, he fucking  _ hated  _ each of them. 

“Yes, actually, that is so.”

“Quiet, Zabini,” an other one, who wasn’t attached to him directly spoke from somewhere to his left. “You are now in the custody of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, acting on behalf of the Ministry of Magic of the British Isles. You are to be brought to detainment as stated by the warrant for your arrest, sanctioned by the office of the Minister for Magic himself.”

“Lucky me,” Blaise growled, with no intention of being quiet. 

“I told you to  _ be quiet,”  _ the voice he couldn’t see the owner of repeated. 

Blaise knew he’d regret it, but at this point granting himself as many small, vocal victories against these men as he could took precedence against any hesitance he felt about the very real possibility of making his imprisonment worse for himself. 

“Well, I’m opting to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

The stinging hex that hit the base of his spine was so strong that were he not being manhandled on either side, he was certain his legs would have buckled. 

He closed his eyes as they stood collectively in the queue for the mandatory checks at the apparition point, he would have thought these clowns would’ve at least had the authority to jump to the front of a border queue, but apparently not. Blaise breathed heavily through his nose, the burning pain in his back still very much present. 

“I’d have thought it was illegal to hex a man already in your custody, whose wand you’ve already taken,” Blaise said, defiantly, as the agonisingly slow line moved forward a few small inches. 

“You’d have thought wrong then,” another of the men replied, his voice laced with the kind of cruel smirk that Blaise knew once upon a time Draco would have been proud of. 

Draco, God, the familiar, pale face swam in front of Blaise’s mind’s eye. His blond friend had been one of the first to be rounded up, and Blaise wondered if any of his other friends had fared better than he had. He’d left the country as soon as he’d seen the first WANTED poster. His face, along with Pansy’s, Theo’s and Daphne’s, was plastered in the very centre of Diagon Alley. He hadn’t stopped to read it, only pausing long enough to register what it meant, before throwing his hood up and apparating away to make the quickest plan he could to leave the country. He’d already known, at that point, that Draco and his parents, along with the Crabbes, Goyles and Bulstrodes - _ all _ of them, had already been detained. He had no idea about the rest of Daphne’s family, and both Pansy and Theo, thanks to a multitude of reasons over the past two years, now had no immediate living relatives. 

Blaise grimaced as a further stinging hex hit the same spot - a cheap and low blow, Blaise thought, as the pain - this time amplified further from the still remaining effects of the first, radiated from his spine once more. “I’m sure my lawyer will disagree.”

The men just laughed, collectively. The sound was shrill and confident and gave Blaise an immediate feeling of unease. He would be allowed a lawyer, surely? Wasn’t that a legal requirement? Blaise had to admit he didn’t know for sure, and then, as a third and final hex hit him, in the same spot, he didn’t know anything for sure.

It took everything within him to not cry out in the agony that was coursing through him. 

“You ready to shut the fuck up, yet?” The wizard to his left snarled, they were actually close to the beginning of the queue. Blaise could see the man’s conceited smile in his peripheral vision and it was enough, as much as he  _ should  _ have ignored it, to infuriate him just further enough, to say the worst possible thing he could, given his current, less than desirable circumstances. 

“Not even close.”

* * *

Neville

Neville Longbottom was sitting in the back garden of his grandparents’ house, having not long finished digging up a nearby flower bed, ready to plant some bulbs that would (hopefully) bloom in late summer and autumn. He wasn’t expecting company, having been more than happy leave the busy life of a very much sought after  _ war hero.  _

He’d grown to hate the very phrase. 

He didn’t feel in any way like any hero, he felt like someone who had done what any decent person would have, no more and no less, and no matter who told him he was wrong, he doubted he’d ever see the issue as anything different. And yet, tell him was exactly what everyone continued to do, from friends to acquaintances to reporters, especially the reporters. 

He’d grown to hate the very profession. 

Bringing the back of his right wrist to meet his damp brow, Neville closed his eyes, his breathing finally back to normal. The earth of the flowerbed could have easily been dug and turned with magic, but these days, with no need for rebellion and a constant look over your shoulder and Dumbledore’s Army, Neville much preferred to do physical tasks the Muggle way, especially things that exerted as much energy as digging flowerbeds did. 

He’d just stood back up to shovel some topsoil in preparation for the bulbs when his grandmother’s voice rang from the house.  

“Neville? Are you still out there? You have visitors!”

He groaned inwardly at her words, muttering something very unlike himself about what he would do if she’d let  _ another  _ reporter into the house without telling him. 

“Who?” he shot back, a tad harshly. 

“It’s only Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger!” Augusta called, clearly excited by the visit, “Oh, and the other one - the other Weasley - the girl one.”

“Merlin, gran!” Neville groaned as the four familiar faces began to shuffle out of the back door, each shooting Neville a wide smile as they began to approach him. “I’m sorry about that,” he shot at Ginny, the embarrassment at his grandmother’s rudeness present on his already reddened cheeks. 

“It’s alright,” Ginny laughed, “ _ the other one  _ is a fairly common descriptor for me these days, when I hang around these three, anyway,” she jerked a thumb over her shoulder at her brother. “Unless, of course, a reporter catches me without them,  _ then  _ I’m the greatest thing since Bertie Botts.” Her eyebrows raised as she spoke and Neville barked a laugh in return. 

“I know exactly what you mean,” he replied. 

From behind the visitors, Augusta’s voice rang out. “Would the four of you like some lemonade?” 

“Yes, please, Mrs Longbottom, that would be lovely,” Hermione replied with a smile, and the group walked over to the table Neville had been previously sitting at, following Neville’s lead.

Neville’s eyes met Ron’s, “What have you been up to, mate?” the redheaded wizard asked, watching with interest as a tray floated towards the group, a pitcher of bubbling clear liquid and five glasses situated on top.

Gesturing vaguely towards the half-completed garden, Neville shrugged, “This, mainly. I couldn’t do any more interviews or appearances, I hated all of that, if I’m honest.”

All four answered with various words of agreement, and for a while the five friends settled into a comfortable silence, small talk sporadically placed every so often, until Neville’s curiosity got the better of him. 

“So, how can I help you all?” 

The four exchanged hurried glances, which only added to Neville’s interest. At first, they all looked as though unsure how to broach whatever the subject was, and it was Harry who eventually spoke first. 

“Have you heard about Malfoy and his friends getting arrested?”

“Yeah,” Neville frowned, “I knew they had Malfoy, and Crabbe and Goyle, but I wasn’t sure if they found the others.”

“Well, they have,” Harry said, “and they’re all facing full Wizengamot trials... for  _ treason. _ ”   
  


“Treason?” Neville repeated with a snort, “isn’t that a bit much?”

“We think so,” Ron replied and the other three nodded in agreement. 

Harry took a swig of his lemonade before he spoke. “They’re even bringing up Dumbledore’s death again and using that as evidence to prosecute Malfoy.”

“But Malfoy couldn’t kill Dumbledore - I thought that was the whole big thing,” Neville said, slightly confused. 

“It was, it  _ is _ \- or should be, anyway. They’re wanting to charge Pansy Parkinson for crying out that you should have all handed me over to Voldemort, and Theo Nott, Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini are on trial for,” he brought his fingers up, to air quote, “ _ being affiliated with known Death Eaters _ . Meaning; their parents.”

“It’s hardly their fault if their parents were Death Eaters,” Neville pointed out. “And as much as I didn’t like Pansy shouting that, saying something is hardly a crime, she probably just wanted to stay alive,” Neville could scarcely believe he was defending the same people who had ridiculed him for years, but something had changed for both him and the Slytherins during their last year of schooling, under the Carrows reign, and he felt confident that Pansy Parkinson was no more a Death Eater than the chair he was sitting upon. 

Ginny nodded. “Being a cow doesn’t make you evil by default.” 

“Yeah,” Neville let out a small laugh and noticed Ron shift slightly in his seat, his ears reddening as he seemed to intently examine the table. “Exactly.”

“We feel the same,” Hermione explained, “Crabbe, Goyle and Millicent Bulstrode were arrested first, and there actually  _ is  _ evidence to convict them, but the others,” she shook her head, “I just don’t like it. And I don’t believe their trials will be fair.”

“Is there anything we can do? Don’t you,” he looked at Harry, “have any sort of influence or…” Neville trailed off, not entirely sure where his train of speech had been heading. 

Shaking his head, Harry frowned. “None, not over the Wizengamot anyway, but,” he glanced to each of the other three in turn, “Hermione has found something that we  _ could  _ do.”

Neville’s eyes flitted quickly to Hermione, and then back to Harry. “Oh?” 

Harry didn’t seem to know how to continue, and Neville’s eyes ended up finally on Ron, who spoke up. “It’s...it’s a big ask, mate.”

 

* * *

Theo

“Your name is,” the forlorn, harsh looking witch that Theo didn’t recognise began, reading from a piece of half-curled parchment, “Theodore Cantankerous Nott?”

Theo felt his eye twitch as the woman said his name aloud, the words dripping like acid from her tongue, as though it were a personal insult that she was forced to say them. He stared at her, determined to not lose any kind of face in her presence, in any of their collective presence. He would keep his head high throughout this bullshit proceeding, of that much he was sure. 

“And you were born on the thirtieth of June, 1980. Is that correct?”

Theo still didn’t break eye the contact. “Yes,” he replied curtly. 

“You are charged, as I am sure you are aware, with affiliations with known Death Eaters, notably one Theodore Horatio Nott, one Draco Lucius Malfoy, and one Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. Do you deny these affiliations?” 

“I do not,” Theo began, “but, I-”

“That will be all, Mr Nott,” the woman interjected, before turning her attention to those sitting in the stands, whom Theo had paid little attention to before now. He dared a glance upwards and was greeted by a sea of faces, each as indistinguishable as the next. 

“As you have heard, ladies and gentlemen, Mr Nott has not denied the accusation and has fully admitted to that which he is charged with.”

Theo blanched, now hang on a second, he opened his mouth to interrupt her stupid smug face, only at the moment did he realise just how full of herself this woman looked. Theo wished greatly for the chance to curse her, and possibly stamp on her head, if the opportunity happened to present itself. 

How the hell could he, a teenager, have been expected to not affiliate with his own father? And Draco’s father he’d only ever seen  _ with  _ Theo’s father, it was hardly as though he’d gone on murder sprees with the man, and Draco himself, well he may have bore the mark, but Theo knew, just as anyone with a modicum of sense should have, that Draco was as much use as a Death Eater as a chocolate frog would have been. 

“It is my duty now,” the woman continued to speak, “to pass my judgement on the apt punishment of Mr Nott for his crime.”

Where was the evidence? Where was his chance to defend himself? Those things happened at trials, didn’t they? Theo’s heart was hammering loudly. 

“I’d like the opportunity to defend myself against my charges,” Theo loudly exclaimed. 

“That is not how these things go, Mr Nott,” the witch stated, to Theo’s horror, what the fuck did she mean by that? “You have admitted to that which you are charged with, it is up to myself, as the overseeing judge, to now decide on what your punishment for that crime should be.”

Theo’s eyes widened, not defend himself? This was a joke, surely. He’d done  _ nothing  _ to further the Death Eater cause, and had fought for Potter’s side, along with a handful of other Slytherins who had opted to align themselves entirely away from Voldemort, during the Battle of Hogwarts. 

This couldn’t be happening, Theo deliberated, this woman, this...poor excuse for a judge was going to what? Send him to Azkaban? For the crime of having a Death Eater for a father? Theo suddenly felt very, very sick. Perhaps he ought to punch one of the guards at his side, but deep down Theo knew that would do little to change anything, and in fact would probably see him gain an additional year or two on top of whatever ridiculous sentence this woman planned on giving him. 

“Mr Nott - as you have openly admitted your guilt, I am left with little option but to insist upon a ten year sentence in Azkaban prison.”

Theo’s ears must have stopped working, that was the only explanation he was able to come up with - ten pissing years? For what? Still intent that this was the sickest joke that had ever been played on him, despite the sinking, terrifying feeling that was residing somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he looked up at her once more. 

Her eyes suddenly narrowed and a grim look befell her harsh features as she focussed on something behind Theo’s left shoulder. The noise of the courtroom - not that there had been much to begin with, silenced entirely, and a familiar, yet highly unexpected voice spoke into the quiet. 

“I, Hermione Jean Granger, object to the proposed incarceration of Mr Nott, and am invoking Fring’s Law of Prisoner Claim. I am willing to accept full responsibility for Mr Nott and, given this is his first offence, and I possess no criminal record - neither magical nor Muggle, I am willing to offer myself as replacement should Mr Nott break the conditions laid out by Mr Fring, surrounding the Law of Prisoner Claim.”

The courtroom remained silent for a few short seconds before a dull buzz of noise began to slowly trickle through the noiseless room. 

Theo glanced first at the judge, who looked furious, and then, his whole body shaking half in surprise and half in a hopeful relief, over his shoulder. Where, standing incredibly still, was one Hermione Granger, the brightest witch in his year, one of the Golden Trio and heralded as a hero, whom he doubted he’d said more than five words to in his life but yet was apparently intent on saving him from going to prison. 

Her eyes flickered to his for the briefest fraction of a second, and Theo distinctly saw the corners of her mouth twitch up and then back down, so quickly that, had he blinked he was certain he would have missed it. Still in disbelief, Theo turned back around.

The judge still looked thunderous, and Theo smirked at the way she attempted to regain her composure. “Miss Granger, you are aware of what you are proposing?”

“I am,” Theo heard Hermione reply. 

The judge’s nostrils flared. “Very well. Mr Nott, please report to the processing office, next door, where the conditions of your...release, will be laid out to yourself,” she drew a long, steady breath before shooting him one hardened, lingering glare. “Case dismissed.”


End file.
